Dissolution
by LindseyBee
Summary: Dallas Winston knew he wanted to die the moment Johnny's eyes closed. /// Dallas's thoughts leading up to his suicide. One-shot. Rated T for language.


Everything belongs to S.E. Hinton. I own nothing. (:

Remember, this is Dallas Winston we're talking about – his mind and mouth are _not _censored.

Most _italics _are Dallas's thoughts. Some, however, are there for emphasis.

Please, R&R.

-

"We're all proud of you, buddy, it's gonna be okay." Dallas Winston was clutching the dark arm of Johnny Cade, promising him something he sensed was untrue. He was on his deathbed. Johnny was on his fucking deathbed, and there was nothing Dallas could do. Except beg—mentally, of course.

_Come on, Johnnycakes. Don't die…. Don't fucking die on me…._

"Ponyboy…. Stay gold, Ponyboy. Stay gold…."

Dallas watched as Johnny's eyes drooped, eventually settling closed, signaling the end. Johnny's last breath—the last beat of his heart. He was gone, and he hadn't even said a Goddamn word to Dallas before he'd died. It hurt. It hurt Dallas…. His heart was usually protected by some sort of metaphorical slate of iron, but not now. No words to Dallas…no goodbye….

"Fucking punk…" Dally whispered, delivering a swift punch to the wall. His knuckles throbbed—hell, his knees were trembling, but he didn't care. He knew what he wanted to do. _Had _to do. The heater…. _The heater…._

Dallas trudged out of the hospital. He was crying. There were tears—hot, blurry tears running down his face. Every single droplet felt heavy on his cheeks, while his throat had contracted chokingly. He was surprised he wasn't dead himself. He almost couldn't breath.

_Why'd you bother helpin' people, Johnny? Look where it got you…. Look what it did. Fuck this. Fuck this world. If you're leaving, Johnnycakes, then I'm comin' too…._

Dallas left the perimeter of the hospital and went straight towards the nearest convenience store. Had he robbed this place before? He couldn't remember…. Didn't care, frankly…it wouldn't matter soon….

He entered. The man at the counter gave him a look—a dirty look, an unwanted sort of glare. Oh yes, he'd been here before. Maybe he hadn't robbed this dump before, but he'd been here—and left on real indecent terms, too.

For some unfathomable reason, Dallas went to the magazines, stroking the covers and crying. Bawling, even. Dallas Winston—_bawling_. He didn't bawl. But—but—_Johnny_….

"You gonna buy one of those magazines, son?"

Dallas stared up at the cashier. He'd spoken. Such innocent words but enough to set him off. He ripped the magazine closest to his fists in half, almost grinning as the shreds were dropped from his hands and hit the floor.

"If you shred those up you buy 'em."

Dallas almost snapped, right then and there. The cashier had spoken again. _Dared _to speak again. Did he not see him? Did he not fucking _see his expression_?

Dally's hands were working themselves. He'd taken the heater from his pocket and pointed it at the cashier. The man was shaking now.

_Not so talkative now, huh?_

"Give me the money…."

"Oh God, don't shoot…" the man whimpered.

"_Give me the money!"_

The cash was handed over. It was papery and light—worth a hell of a lot, too. But Dallas didn't care. He didn't need money where he was heading….

Eerie darkness replaced the dim lighting of the convenience store. Dallas was running now—down the street. The hard, damp street. Had it rained earlier? Was it raining _now_? Dally wouldn't know—he couldn't feel. Not physically, at least.

Suddenly, he saw something in the distance. Something useful.

_A payphone. The gang…._

Dallas leaned against the side of the payphone and inserted a coin. He dialed the Curtis's number—everyone would be there. Their house was like a fucking hospital.

_Ring. Ring. Ring._

"Hello?"

"Dallas?"

"Darry…?"

"No, it's Steve. That you, Dally?"

"Steve? I wanna talk to Darry."

"Okay…"

Silence. The sound of footsteps and muffled tones. Darry's throaty voice, replacing Steve's higher one.

"Yeah?"

"Darry? It's Dallas. I robbed a convenience store…. Think you could meet me at the park?"

"Sure, Dally. Hey, are you okay?"

_Okay? No, but I will be. I'll be okay…._

"Yeah…. Johnny's dead…."

There was an uncomfortably pregnant pause.

"We know…."

"_Johnny…_" Dallas felt an unwanted flicker of pain. Yes, his numbness was only physical…. "Just meet me at the park, will you?"

"Sure thing."

There was a quiet click, and then the dial tone. Dallas ran towards the park, sparing no time to hang up the payphone. There were sirens behind him, screeching loudly—followed by obnoxious red and blue lights. Dally could see the shadows of his buddies in the distance, emerging only yards from him. The fuzz…the gang…and the _heater_….

There were noises around him, the obvious cocking of guns and the shouts of policemen as Dallas pulled his weapon on them.

"Drop it!" they shrieked.

"You'll never get me alive!" _Alive._

The next noise Dallas heard was the ear crippling crow of bullets slicing through the air. They hit his body forcefully, crushing his bones and muscles as they cleaved against his skin. The greaser was dead before his flesh felt the dampness of the ground.

_I told you I was comin', Johnny…._


End file.
